This Changes Everything
by misscake001
Summary: What happens when a case goes wrong and Sherlock becomes unreachable in front of Johns eyes?  Angsty Slash. More chapters to come if there is interest :
1. Chapter 1

**No Characters belong to me. No profit made, etc etc etc.**

**I can't actually wait for this series to start again. Thanks for reading, it makes me happy :) Reviews are cupcakes****.**

**This Changes Everything**

I couldn't feel my hands. I have no idea how long I've been walking for but I'd left around 5 that morning and just walked. It was freezing and I hadn't put on warm enough attire, just picked up the clothes off of the floor from last night and had to get out of the flat. I just had to think.

This changed everything.

It had all started the day before with a truly horrid case of Sherlock's which had ended, as per usual with Sherlock chasing the suspect and me chasing Sherlock. It had ended badly and in the Thames, much to my detriment and as a bloodied, soaking, shivering Sherlock handed Lestrade the wretched individual who, in the last week had caused so much pain to one family, we were told that it was too late. The kidnap victim had been found dead at the address Sherlock had handed them an hour before. As if it was possible, the colour drained from his face further and I could only run to catch up as he turned without a word and walked away. At least Lestrade could read him well enough not to call us back for a report.

I had never seen him like this. His soul was darker than usual and it unnerved me greatly. I followed him up into the kitchen and busied myself with the kettle, the only thing I felt his mood would allow. I turned to look at him. He was stood hunched over the table with his back to me, hands flat on the surface and head so very low. I was hesitant in what to do next.

_"Sherlock, I think you need to get out of those wet clothes, will you let me have a look at that cut on your head?"_

It pained me to see him in such a state and tugged on parts of my heart I hadn't felt for a while, parts I had forgotten existed. No matter how strong this man was, he still needed 'looking after'. God he would berate me for that if I ever said it out loud. However, gone was the cocky, self-assured man that had scolded me for being so effected by others. He really is uncharted territory this man before me.

_"Sherlock?"_

I was startled back towards the counter behind me as he swiped an angry arm across the table in front of him, sending the glass-wear lab equipment smashing against the wall to the left.

_"I don't need anything, Thank you Doctor." _He hissed bitterly. _"And I don't think it really needs a Medical Degree to tend to a small gash. Do you? Or is that the real reason you haven't re-enlisted Hmm? We both know you're fit for duty Doctor, you 'trailing' behind me this evening is evidence of that. So that leaves us with a confidence issue, am I right?"_

There was a horrid silence and it was all becoming so clear to me now. This is the man that people are forced to deal with, this strange seemingly detached, 'sociopathic' child. A scared child at that. It did not deter me and as I walked around the table I picked up a large shard of glass from the floor and placed it on the table. I did this until all that was left were the tiny shards to be dusted up. As I moved slowly and silently, I felt the heat of his gaze upon me and became aware of the change from the steaming anger that belonged to the outside world, to the lost look of a child that was for me alone. When I was done I stood and met those eyes full on. He obviously couldn't understand my reaction, I was supposed to be hurt. I was supposed to walk out of that door and not come back. I was supposed to stop chipping away at the human soul I knew was in there. His eyes were misty and he broke the silence.

_"How can you stand it John, to be around such a creature as myself?"_

His voice was cracked and full of self-loathing and he didn't know what to do with his hands. So this was the man Mycroft had told me of, the brother that needed watching and the one that had turned to drugs for those lost years. I wondered if I had met him sooner whether he would have still made those choices.

_"You should run John, get as far away from me as possible. I'm not safe to be around, you'll only get hurt". _

There were tears in his eyes and his fists rose up into those wild curls. He was on the edge of somewhere and I had to go get him back. I moved forward until I was In front of him searching out his eyes, but he wasn't focusing.

_"I'm a dangerous person" _He whispered.

_"No. Don't ever say that do you hear?"_

That was it, I couldn't stay back any longer. I closed the gap and tried to bring his hands down from his head. I found that my own hands were gentler than my head was telling them to be. I felt wetness around his wrist; he must have cut himself when he smashed the glass. He tried to avoid my glare, but seemed unwilling to get away. I now had my hands on each side of his head, just like he had done to me that night by the railway track, trying to gain my focus. It felt a different gesture this time.

_"Sherlock don't ever think that way."_

He squirmed under my touch and I find myself gripping him harder, tears running and smudging the dried blood on his cheek, his eyes searching anywhere to rest but mine. My breath was becoming ragged to match his own, I just needed him to understand. I moved closer.

_"Don't you understand how amazing you are?"_

I put my forehead to his. He was shaking and was so cold to touch. I moved closer, overwhelmed with the natural need to warm him.

_"You think people don't see, but they do. They do."_

I feel him relax a little under my grip and suddenly I'm more desperate to make him understand than ever.

_"__I__ see."_

I'm out of breath now and I realise that his eyes are now on me for the first time since we left the river. I feel his breath upon my cheek and he doesn't seem quite as lost as before.

_"I see."_

I kiss his forehead and he closes his eyes.

_"I can always see__.__"_

Now I'm the desperate one. I kiss his cheek. His breath quickens and I feel tears prickle my own eyes. I pause slightly and without thinking kiss his lips. I have surprised myself and pull back slightly. He hasn't flinched and a few seconds of me not breathing pass before he opens his eyes as if he was waiting for more.

I suddenly feel his hands upon my chest and scrunch my shirt. I think about how this would apear to the outside world at this moment and imagine that it looks as though he's threatening me. He breaths into my neck and before I can process the last minute, he takes my face in his hands and returns the kiss forcefully. It is desperate and passionate all at once and I hear him make a noise underneath it. His cheeks are wet and the pace quickens. I kiss him back with all the will I find physically possible. Before I know it I am pushed up against the wall behind me, all than anger and angst that I realise has been building for weeks exploding before my eyes.

He tastes of desperation and tears and the mist grows thicker and thicker. I have never wanted anyone on this level than I do the man entwined with my soul at this very point. I break the kiss to take a gasping breath and it is long enough for him to get my shirt off over my head. He kisses me again, but this time it's more controlled, more of an invitation and he has his hands around my face and in my hair and all I can do now is follow where he is leading me. His hands trail down my shoulders and hold my own hands. His forehead is against mine as he catches his breath and I feel a chill as he pulls his body away from mine. However, his eyes don't leave mine for a second and he pulls me away from the wall, guiding me towards the bedroom.

He whispers in my ear throughout and with clothes abandoned on the floor and hands fisted in sheets, he ceases to be the man from earlier this evening. He cried my name when it mattered and I found myself unable to let him go. Lying there, stroking his hair I realised that I had signed up to this rollercoaster all along. The Sherlock that fell asleep in my arms that night was the one that only I have ever seen, I'm sure of that now.

I flush with the memory and realise It's not as cold as I thought it was. I see that I've reached the river and so I stop. It's hard to believe that there is of course, no evidence of what happened here last night. I've never slept with another man before last night, I'm not gay how can I be? There have been women, lots of woman. I try to imagine Sherlock at this moment. He would have awoken not long after I left as it was amazing he had managed to sleep that long at all. I had a horrible image of the anger from the previous night. What am I thinking? Of course this can only be horrific, we can never return from this. I hang my head and lean on the bars in front of me. As I start thinking about having to move out, the phone in my pocket goes off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the positive comments guys, this is my second story so I'm honored that you want me to continue so… back to the angst. **

**Ps. Jas, there will be milk buying soon, I promise.**

**Chapter 2**

The phone in my pocket goes off. It won't be _him_ so I don't look at it. I'm really not sure I ever want to look at it again as I am going to have to start quelling my 'Sherlock' based phone anticipation at some point. My phone will have to go back to being silent, like the desert I was in before I met him. I think that getting something to eat would be a good starting point when my phone goes again. I relent this time.

2 new messages

-_Can you tell my dear brother to answer my calls_- Microft Holmes-

-_Are you with Sherlock? I can't get hold of him. Need some advice. New case_. –Lestrade-

And so the real world awaits it seems. I'm going to have to deal with whatever the fall out of this is sooner or later so it may as well be now. I turn and start back towards the flat. As I walk I can only picture him, how he felt on my skin and how he looked in the dim light of his room. It feels like an age ago already, but as I shut my eyes I could recall everything about him, how he smelt and how his hair was still damp from the river. I hope he'd managed to clean the wound on his head already and feel guilty that my attention had been diverted when I should have been patching him up. Was I a bad person? Did I take advantage of him? I couldn't answer any of my own questions, but the thought of him pushing me away after last night was almost unbearable and made me nauseous. I'm sure he wouldn't require me any longer, It had probably been some sort of experiment and I'd rather leave on my own accord than experience that from the one man I had ever found myself drawn to in this way. I turn the corner into Baker Street and inwardly groan as I see a panda car parked up and Lestrade hammering on the door. He turns and looks relieved.

"_Ah, at last_," he shouts. "_Can you let me in? I need to ask him some questions_."

"_It's not really a good time_." I sigh.

I put the key in the door and dread having an audience for the first time I see those eyes after last night and knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't let company hinder anything he had to say.

"_Oh for Christ's sake. Who let you in? Because I know Sherlock wouldn't have_." I start, as I walk into the living room to find Mycroft Holmes sat in my chair.

"_My brother__,__ John. Where is he exactly_?"

I feel the pressure of two pairs of eyes staring at me, waiting for a response and I busy myself with putting my keys on the side and shuffling papers on the table. Why can't they just leave him alone. They're always after a piece of him; his brother, Lestrade, the whole of Scotland Yard. All they can do is take. They are both awaiting an answer and I feel suffocated.

"_He's not here, obviously. Why don't you please, both of you just leave and, when I see him, I'll...I'll tell him. Okay_?"

Lestrade looks a little taken aback, takes a second to clocks the broken glass from last night and frowns.

"_What happened here_?"

I'm silent. I don't think I can even begin to talk of last night, not even the parts leading up to it without falling apart myself. I believe that Mycroft senses there being no point in an interrogation and stands to leave. He knows, somehow he knows and I don't want to dwell on how.

_"My brother barely leaves the flat when there is no case John, we all know that. So please contact me when he returns to you. He has after all, Left his house keys _." He gestures to the keys on the fireplace where Sherlock threw them last night then walks towards the door and fixes me with that smug stare of his, "_and you may want to tidy, John. The bedroom's a terrible state_."

Lestrade is of course oblivious to the accusation, for which I am truly thankful. He sighs.

"_Fine, Okay John, please get him to call me when he gets back, the clock is ticking on this one."_

Where the hell is he then? I spend the next 15 minutes with the TV turned up, doing as Mycroft suggested. I have never been able to cope with silence unless Sherlock is sat on the sofa or bent over the kitchen table poking and prodding at something he shouldn't be. The TV only ever goes on when I'm worried he'll notice me watching him, which of course he undoubtedly has. He probably could see this all from that first meeting, and knew it would end like this. The flat is a bit of a mess, I 'd most definitely neglected what Sherlock referred to as 'my duties' in the last 24 hours. I'd been having a 'sort out' before I had chased him out of the flat, leaving piles of books and clothes on the sofa and so I went to my room to get down my army rucksack to shove them in. I may as well walk to the charity shop whilst waiting for the world to end. He'd been annoyed at my taking up 'paper-spreading space' until I had told him that it was so he could have more room for some of his case stuff. He'd looked at me in surprise and I could feel his eyes on me whilst he put the kettle on himself, for what was probably the first time ever. I had smiled to myself in recognition of his actions and I could feel that he was smiling too.

As I reached over to the fireplace to pick up a pile of the books to be removed, I knocked the skull and notice the corner of something now revealed from underneath. I find myself looking over my shoulder in a cartoon like fashion as I was forbidden to touch the skull on Sherlock's orders. As I pick it up, It's secrets fall to the floor. It is a collection of small newspaper photos of Sherlock and myself. The top one is from 5 months ago and we're just visible behind Lestrade. I'm handing Sherlock a bottle of water and I instantly remember the gesture as it had been so hot and I had been worried he would pass out. I stare at them for what feels like hours and then jump out of my skin as the door buzzer goes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for the very enthusiastic review from 'Soot'. You encouraged me not to go to the gym in order to write this :) If you like, then please review. It keeps me writing ****J**

**Chapter 3**

He lounged in the corner and lit another cigarette, sinking into the lurid shadows after refusing yet another '_drink_' from the third individual to approach him that hour. This was interesting, very interesting; this pain in his chest. Not a good interesting. Not a _'fantastic - a horrific puzzle for my brain to chew on' interesting'__,_ this was painful. He'd woken up after last night, alone and had immediately felt like he'd mislaid something. This strange pain had started then.

This clearly changes everything.

He was used to being alone, so it couldn't be that. He'd considered himself alone for around 28 of his 30 years and incidentally realised those 2 he'd discounted, were the ones spent with _him_. He felt...cold. Yes that was it, John had uncovered him and removed a weight that he hadn't realised was in his chest. A weight Sherlock had placed upon himself years ago after the 'university incidents'. He hadn't cared for the memories that Sebastian had invoked when they had met at the bank and he had tried hard to delete them. He'd never cared for sex. It appeared to him that it was just another weapon humans used to torture each other with and had filed it under 'unnecessary' long ago. It turned his stomach to think of John in the same beat as Sebastian. They were nothing alike. He needed to break this down, take it back to a format he could decipher, as it was clear that analysing his own feelings on a matter such as this was not an area he excelled at.

**A number of premises existed;**

1. John had wanted to do the things that they had done last night. The fact that he himself had also wanted to partake was highly irrelevant.

2. John had left, had not remained in the flat to commence their normal routine that he seemed to favor in the mornings.

3. John hadn't called.

**These premises led to a number of possibilities;**

1. John was unaware of how to proceed. The fact that he too was unsure was highly irrelevant.

2. John didn't feel it necessary to proceed.

3. John wants to terminate living their arrangement.

4. John wants to terminate all previous levels of contact and all existing arrangements.

This last possibility took the breath out of him. It would be most inconvenient. Who would bring him back then? He realised he had finished another cigarette and reached to pick up the pack from the table. How had he gotten here, of all places? He must think about removing himself from this hole that had swallowed the years of his past he wished to forget. It was surprising that he had even gotten through the door in the first place, without the bouncer recognising him and calling 'the management', or some firm of Mycroft's that had handed them his picture. This had been his distraction, his cure for the boredom and these walls and its back alleys knew his secrets. He imagined John here and it made him feel sick. If _he_ had known the depths plunged to in those days, he was sure he would never see him again. John was the replaced distraction is his life now, was the constant and had changed everything, ergo; John must stay. No, he wanted John to stay and to touch his soul the way he had last night. He felt the pain in his chest searing again and became aware that he was slipping towards the place he had found himself last night, before John had pulled him back. He got up and grabbed his scarf. He needed to talk to, and observe John. Now, immediately. Must have more data.

I took a deep breath and descended the stairs as the door buzzer went off again.

"_God, you look like crap_" said Harry taking off her sunglasses and peering at him. When I didn't answer straight away she barged past and headed up the stairs. Oh God, was lunch with Harry today? She had been going through, what I liked to refer to as one of her '_controlled drinking fazes'_ and I liked to make the most of them. I had suggested somewhere nice for lunch and now kicked myself for making it today.

"_Look, I'm sorry, but is there any way we can make it another time Harry, something's….come up_."

She plonked herself in my chair, throwing her bag on the floor and picked up a book from the arm.

"_Oh_," she said looking a little hurt. "_Gotten a better offer have you? Where is your little friend anyway_?"

"_He's gone, I mean he's out. I don't know where he is actually._" I rub my eyes in a tired fashion.

"_Ooooh_?"

She looks through me knowingly. So it was _this_ Harry that had come to see me today. This Harry could always do that, how did she do that? When she wasn't binge drinking, she was my omniscient sister, the one that had counseled me in that rough and ready way when we were kids and teenagers. Why didn't _she_ visit more often? As I had done when we were younger, I felt a familiar warmth towards her and I realised why Clara stuck around waiting for this Harry. I made a mental note to remember this feeling for a time she relapses and I received a call at 3 am from a police station.

"John, what's wrong?"

I threw myself on to Sherlock's sofa, the irony of the occupant in my chair offering the emotional solace was not lost on me. I bury my head in my hands and I think she realises the importance I am placing in my next words and takes pity on me.

"_We need a pub for this_." She says.

"_No Harry, really. I need to stay here, Incase Sherlock comes back_."

"_He's got his phone hasn't he? Come on, we won't be long, just one drink. Anyway I want that lunch you promised me I'm starving_." She grabs my arm and I feel like she's taking my hand to cross the road like she did when we were small. I look back towards the living room before I'm dragged out of the flat.

We don't go far and she finds us a nice quiet table in the corner of a tucked away pub. I don't have the energy to worry about her drinking today. That's not how it works anyhow and I can tell she isn't in that place today. We sit for a while, then I tell her everything and she holds my hand across the table. I can see my own heaviness in her eyes and she waits until I finish before she asks her questions. They are things I haven't considered and I realise I have lost the thread of myself in all this. What do I want from the future? What would make me happy? I realise that I cannot imagine any of it without _him_, but again I have his anger in my head and his probable rejection and kneejerk reaction is already tearing me up. I think to witness it in him today would brake me all over again. There is a long silence.

"_Oh, little brother_." She says "_You spent years fighting for your country. Can't you see a way of fighting for yourself?_" She squeezes my hand. _"Tell me one thing, although I am sure of the answer. Is this just sex? Or is this love? Or worse__,__ is this sex and love because you're obviously in over your head_."

I don't answer, I don't have to as she smiles at the recognition in my eyes and she has the same look she had when she watched me graduate. It's some sort of misguided pride and I expect her to say something about me being 'all grown up' and punch my arm.

"_Have you called him_?" Again I don't answer, just look at her with a pained expression on my face.

"_So….. He woke up and you were gone_?"

"_Oh John_."

I hold my breath. "_Oh God__._" My head collapses to the table and I feel dizzy.

She scraped her chair loudly, hurriedly getting to her feet. "_You need to go. Now John. Get up, go on_." She shakes my shoulder and I awake as If I've been in a dream all this time. I think I have been for the past 2 years. "_And call him on the way. I'll sort the bill, just go now._" She kisses my cheek and shoves me towards the door. Before I start running, I take out my phone and speed-dial his number. He doesn't pick up but it goes to answer phone.

"_Sherlock, it's me. Well obviously it's me. Sorry. I, ummm__.__ I don't want to do this over the phone_." A pause. "_Oh but I'm going to__._" I'm out of breath just from the thought that he could hear this in a few minutes. "_Sherlock__.__ I'm sorry I left this morning. I didn't leave you, I mean I left the flat but I wasn't… running. I hope you know what I mean. "_ How could words be failing me right now? I mean, I've given lectures at St Bart's for Christ's sake, conveyed the most important of information to relatives of patients. "_Look, I'm on my way back to the flat, I hope you'll be there when I get back. We need to talk, I need to tell you that I….That I want to… just be home okay. Our home_".

10 minutes later, I let myself in to the flat and immediately know that he's been here since I left. There are wet footprints up the stairs to the flat, his size. It had rained briefly as Harry and I had walked to the pub around 2 hours ago, but the sun had been out as I had run back to Baker Street leaving the pavements dry. I warm inside as I imagine him being pleased at my 'deduction'. It is short lived. I bump into Mrs. Hudson on the way up the stairs.

"_Oh thank heavens you're back dear, I almost called the police. Stormed out of here he did, like a thunder cloud. It's not right, those moods of his. You tell him I'll be taking it out of the rent_." With that, she bustled away.

My pace slows knowing that he is no longer here and hoping that whatever had set his mood alight, It hadn't been my phone message. Deflated, I opened the door to the flat. The table was overturned and his case files were spread out across the floor where the shelves had been ripped from the wall. I swallow hard and pick up the skull from the kitchen tiles. There were no signs of the beautiful pictures that had lain underneath it. As I did so I heard a familiar noise and traced it to my bedroom. My room was the only place untouched by Sherlock's hurricane and my rucksack still lay on my bed half packed with clothes from before Harry had arrived. The beeping continued and I picked up Sherlock's phone from the floor. It had seemingly survived being flung at the wall of my room, enough to receive my message. It had however, not been received by the ears it was meant for. My heart sank and I realised what this could have looked like to Sherlock; my leaving this morning, my bag half packed and him not getting my message in time. The worry sets in. Where did I go from here? I slide down the wall to the floor and stare at my hands. I think about calling Harry back and as I get my phone out of my pocket, it rings. It's Lestrade.

"_He's not here_." I shout down the phone.

"_John._"

A long pause.

"_I've just gotten a tip-off from the beat plods. They were called to a club in Soho. John, it's Sherlock, he's taken an overdose_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow, thanks again for the reviews. I have very little time to update, so will keep going as long as there is encouragement :) Reviews make my day. xx**

**Jess**

**Chapter 4**

"_John, did you hear me_?"

I can't get my words out for a couple of seconds. I try to stand, but have to place a hand on the wall behind me to steady myself.

"_Is he alive_?"

"_Barely, by the sounds of it_."

"_How can you be sure that it's him, I mean come on Greg...?" _I don't get to finish my sentence.

"_Wake up will you John, he's known to them. I used to pull him out of that club all the time. I didn't even know he was using again, did you_?"

A pause

"_JOHN, did you know?_" He shouts.

"_No._" I'm sure I can hear guilt in my voice. "_Okay, okay_." I say, more to myself than to Lestrade and I shake myself out of this mist that's clogged up my brain and start to look for my keys.

"_Where have they taken him_?"

I hear a crackling radio down the phone line and some inaudible words.

"_They say they haven't moved him from the scene yet, they're stableising him apparently. What the hell does that even mean? Are you at Baker Street, because I have a car around the corner and I can have you there in minutes, you can travel with him."_

"_Um, no it's more sensible I go straight to the Hospital_. _ I know some of the attending A and E Consults." _My brain is starting to kick back in. I know why they haven't moved him and I don't wish to dwell on the possibilities.

More radio crackles I can't make out.

"_They're saying it doesn't look good. I think you should let us take you. For all our sakes, believe me. If anything happened to him there John...It's the gutter of Soho..."_

I hear the siren of a police car downstairs and wonder if I have time to throw up.

The noise of the vehicle goes through me and we swerve another corner going at a breakneck speed. I'm glad I don't know the officers that have picked me up and that Lestrade isn't in the car. I don't feel I could speak even if I wanted to. No words are there. They wouldn't be able to give me anything I needed anyway. I can't dwell on the effects my actions have had on him right now, if they are because of my actions in the first place. After all, no one has ever gotten Sherlock to do something he doesn't want to do. Right now I decide to put a pin in my guilt and just concentrate on Sherlock. I should call Mycroft, although he probably already knows.

He wasn't lying when he said they could get me there in minutes. The car comes to a halt and Lestrade opens the door for me before I even register it. We're at the front of a dingy looking entrance that I guess is supposed to be said 'club'. We part the lethargy of wasted young souls staring unperturbed by the police presence around the entrance. I can't imagine Sherlock here.

It gets worse.

"_Where's the damn ambulance, have we missed him_?" I say with desperation in my voice and with the need to run, but with no idea in what direction.

"_It's round the back of this delightful establishment__._" says Lestrade. He sounds tired and jogs on ahead. "_It's where the ambulance can get the closest. The alleys out back are where most of the 'dealing' goes down; drugs and ...otherwise. Spent most of my time on the beat round here_."

He turns to me sharply and I can tell he feels he's said too much, probably presumes Sherlock hasn't told me much about his past. It pains me that he is correct. He rushes us through the dark, dank atmosphere and I feel eyes on us the whole way. It feels like I should be preparing myself for something, but I just don't have the energy. I am watching myself from above, completely disconnected. Just as I let my brain go comfortably numb, light explodes in front of my eyes and we're outside again at the back of the club.

I could always tell when Sherlock was in a room, even if I couldn't see him right away. Always, from the minute I put the key in the front door of the flat, I would be able to tell if he was home. I used to think it was because subconsciously I could hear the presence of another individual or not realise I had seen the clues. At Medical school we leant about 'intuition' and were encouraged to believe, as medical practitioners, that it didn't exist. It was merely one of those instances where the human brain picks up signs based on one's own existing knowledge and past experience at a subconscious level. I had never really believed it. If that was what intuition was, it was not what Sherlock and I shared. I preferred to believe that when two individuals had such a connection in that way, that it couldn't be explained to others. There wouldn't be any place where one couldn't find the other, no place that they couldn't bring them back from. I knew, as I had done that day at the pool, that there wasn't anything that Sherlock wouldn't do to find me or to get me back. God I wished that he'd heard that phone message. I'd let him down so much. Let us down. I couldn't feel his presence in that alley.

I don't see him right away, only the individuals in high visibility jackets all hunched over something small and crumpled on the ground. There were four of them and it nudges at the part of my brain still working enough to remember that in serious critical instances the paramedics will call for vehicalised consultants to attend the scene immediately, before mobilising the casualty to hospital. The ground is littered with a few bits of equipment; some already used and discarded others still in sterile packages.

"_Sherlock?_" I thought I had cried it, but it had come out as a whisper.

I want to run over, want to see his face, kiss him and tell him I'm here. All my anxiety over his feelings and anger towards me have frozen, like the frost that now appears to have settled on the ground. I just need to see those eyes, but check myself and hope that they are closed and see nothing of what is around him

"_This man will be going with him in the ambulance_." Says Lestrade, out of breath. One looks up and must have read my soul, as he nods slightly with sympathy in his eyes. There is a sudden flash of bright movement and I freeze.

"_No pulse." _A voice says calmly.

"Starting CPR." Says another.

Everything slows down and I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears. Lestrade, at some point has moved in front of me and is blocking the scene. He has his hands on my shoulders and he is saying something to me. I can't make it out; in fact I can't hear anything. He looks concerned and shakes my shoulders a few times, trying to get my eye line. I hear Sherlock say my name somewhere. The next thing I come to on the ground. Lestrade is trying to hold me up, shouting for the other police officers to help him. They lean me against the wall.

"_Breath John, can you hear me, take some deep breaths_."

I put my head between my knees and Lestrade is still knelt in front of me with a hand on my shoulder. I feel sorry for him in that second of clarity that comes with momentary hypoxia and I realise it is a look of a man who believes he has let another down. It must have been hard to watch Sherlock destroy himself in that manner all those years ago.

I start to come back and Lestrade is happy enough to remove his weight keeping me up against the wall, in order to go and remove some young men who have gathered around the door to watch the scene play out. I wonder how many times they've seen it. I try to get up, or at least crawl a little closer to Sherlock. I may be able to grab his hand. They may let me be '_there'_, when they call '_it'. _I have to be holding him when they decide to stop.

Before I can, they start to move him into the van, still squeezing air into his lungs and jumping on his chest. They close the door and I know it's so they can use the cardiac defibrillator in the ambulance. I also know they won't be going anywhere until it's done… either way. Lestrade returns and there is a strange peacefulness. There is no noise from the club, from the ambulance, no traffic, no birds. He slides down the wall to my level and turns his head to look at me. I don't want to return his gaze, there are already tears free flowing down my face. I feel him getting out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket. I didn't know he smoked. He lit two and handed one to me. I actually smile at the gesture and I don't know how. It breaks more tears down my face and neck and I feel his eyes on me. It's comforting. He looks like he's suddenly remembered something and he reaches inside his coat and hands me Sherlock's scarf. It's cold and quite thin and it always amazed me he thought it was of any use at all. I take it from him.

"_You're not just flat mates, are you_?"

I turn to look at him hastily and his eyes don't leave the ambulance. He doesn't need me to answer and places a hand on my shoulder, giving it a gruff pat and taking a long drag of his cigarette. I put down my cigarette so that I can take the scarf in both hands. I hold it up to my face and smell it. Doing so smashes down the last of the walls left standing inside me and I sob uncontrollably into it. He doesn't look embarrassed and I inwardly thank him for it.

"_You're the best thing that ever happened to him Dr__.__ Watson_."

As I watch him stub out his cigarette, I hear the ambulance door open.


	5. Chapter 5

**Once again, thank you for the beautiful comments. I love that the suspense is killing you all (evil laugh). Please keep reviewing****,**** it makes me write quicker. Please stick with me, I promise there'll be some well-earned fluffiness soon. JX **

**Chapter 5**

"_So who's hopping in_?"

We glance at each other, then I'm up off the floor in one movement before Lestrade can ask after what hospital they are taking him to. Saint Bartholomew's off course.

"_He's alive_?" I say breathlessly, climbing into the back of the ambulance.

"_For now. Sit over there and don't touch anything_" says the sterner of the 2 now left in the back as they strap him in. I don't tell them I'm a Doctor, there's no need as they're clearly doing an excellent job and I don't think I could help even if I tried. I sit in the small seat I was directed to and secure my own strap. As we pull away we have the siren going, but it's not as fast as the journey that got me here. They're mindful of the delicate cargo. I'm suddenly hesitant, now that I am closer to him than I have been in 12 hours and as they move about the stretcher skillfully, I get the best view of him since I left that morning. He is so very pale and clammy but looks strangely peaceful. His shirt is open and the defib paddle stickers are still in place connected up to the monitor. I can see dark bruises starting to appear from the CPR in the alley, probably even a cracked rib or 2, unavoidable with someone of his size and stature. His heart rhythm and rate are all over the place and I try to remember my 'overdose' Physiology. My guess is, due to the levels of Naloxone they're piling in, is that it is Heroin that's done this to him. That, and of course whatever crap it has been cut it with. It's not working; he should be showing signs of consciousness by now.

I reach out and just have enough length in my arm to touch his fingers that are strapped to his side. They're cold and his fingernails are blue. I have to swiftly take my hand back so that a paramedic can squeeze by. Now that I've done that, I want to touch his face and that smooth skin. Stroke that piece of hair from his eyes. This is as close as I'm going to get for now, for he is still having help breathing by way of a paramedic and a bagging mask. I know what to expect when we arrive at the hospital. He'll be ventilated on a breathing machine until they can stabilize him.

We're there and I suddenly feel like I haven't made the most the time I've had with him in the ambulance as he is swallowed by the doors to the resus room. I'm told that someone will come and get me when there is news and so the waiting begins. I look at my watch, it's already gone 5 and I go and ask at the desk as to what Doctors are around this evening. I know the Attending; a Daniel Gibson, a nice chap. I used to drink with him in the Mess when we were juniors and it seems like another lifetime. The receptionist takes my details and as I turn to take a seat, I hear her pass the slip of paper to her colleague.

"_These are for the junky they just bought in."_

There's no point in challenging her as it would only most likely end in security being called. I sit for around 45 minutes before Mycroft arrives with 'Anthea' trailing behind as usual, her eyes glued to her phone. He of course demands to see his brother immediately and I'm left to explain that it is best to wait until they have something to tell us and let them just get on with what they must. He's visibly shaken, not to mention angry that his 'powers' aren't stretching this far. He stands in front of my chair.

"_How could you let this happen_?"

I don't answer him and just put my head in my hands and let out a long breath. I must look a sorry state of affairs.

"_I think, as Sherlock's next of kin I'd prefer you weren't here__.__ It was your watch Doctor, where were you?"_

This last sentence catches my attention and I learn more about Mycroft in that second than I ever could in a lifetime. He has an enormous sense of responsibility towards Sherlock and I immediately see all his visits in a different light. He's never off duty and he was hoping he could rely on me. He takes a seat to my left and we say nothing for a few minutes.

"_I'm sorry John. This is all a bit of a shock, I'm sure you understand. He worked so hard. I sent him away for a while last time, did he tell you that? He's been clean for 2 years. Do you know how long ago this 'little setback' started?"_

"_If it's any conciliation, I'm sure it was a spur of the moment thing. He hasn't been using, I would know. You're right though, it is my fault. I don't think I've handled a few things all that well lately. But, I promise you Mycroft, you can depend on me now. You see, the truth is..."_

The doors to the area we've been focused on swing open.

"_John, John Watson. They said it was you. How the hell are you?"_ He shakes my hand enthusiastically.

_"Um, yeah. Good to see you. This is Mycroft Holmes. Um, his brother, you're working on him Sherlock Holmes?"_ I sound distant. He turns to Mycroft.

"_Yeah right, right. We've intubated him and he'll be off to a bed I'm holding in Intensive care in a second. He's stable for now, but not really responding to the usual reversal agents, a bit of a tricky one really. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that the next 24 hours are critical. Look I shouldn't really do this, but you can see him, just for a minute. He's got quite a bit of history with us hasn't he, your brother? You his Doctor? "_ He says turning to me.

"_Um Yes, I mean no I'm not his Doctor. I'm his..." _

I swallow hard. It feels like I'm taking forever, but it suddenly seems the right thing to say.

_"I'm his. I'm his partner actually."_

Daniel hides his surprise well and Mycroft drops his umbrella. 'Anthea' looks up from her phone for a second then returns to whatever she was doing. I want to laugh out loud and I know that Sherlock would treasure the look on his brother's face. The thought of his sly grin lightens my heart further. Daniel seems to sense the moment.

"_Okay. Well, I'm afraid it's one person only guys, the room is full and there's a lot of equipment, you know what it's like John_."

Mycroft looks lost and doesn't know where to place his eyes, obviously knowing enough not to challenge my claim. I shelve the immense need to see him there and then and prevent my irrational selfishness from making me feel even worse about myself today, if it's humanly possible. It would be easy for me to give in to that side right now.

"_Go Mycroft, before they transfer him and we have to wait all over again."_ He doesn't have to be asked twice and someone is waiting to take him through. Daniel looks at me wearing a different face and I recognise it immediately. I'm glad Mycroft isn't here for this conversation. I just need to get something clinical, to hold on to.

"_John, sorry I had no idea_."

"_Daniel, I don't suppose the research has changed much has it, I mean..."_

He pauses to gage the situation and looks apologetic, but he knows I'll appreciate the honesty.

"_John, you know the stats; the survival of heroin overdose patients resuscitated from cardiac arrest is poor. Then we have the hypothermia, renal failure and hypoglycemia to get on top of. Look, let me walk you up to the ITU waiting room, I have to get back I'm sorry mate."_

I'm there for around an hour and I don't see Mycroft leave. I call Harry, she wants to come and 'sit with me'. I love her for it but tell her not to. I call Lestrade and thank him wholeheartedly and say I'll keep him informed. I did a rotation here during my training and its sounds and smells haven't changed a bit. These kinds of things burn themselves into your memory, just like a smile or the sound of a gunshot. I once contemplated a career here before joining the Army and I realise how different my life could have been, what I would have missed. I pour myself another tea and then a pleasant voice comes from the door way.

"_Dr. Watson, I presume? Come on my dear, I can take you through now. Half an hour or so okay, then we have a few procedures to carry out__.__"_

She has a kind voice and there is a chair waiting for me. It's a funny mixture of relief to see him and the need to take a minute to observe all the monitoring and I make a mental note to remind myself of a few things. I sit and take his hand in mine and it is warmer than before, and I add a block of hope to my chest. I remember watching relatives with these groups of patients, feeling empathy towards their need to talk to the loved one in the bed. I felt it was only ever a benefit to the relative, but now I was in the chair and it was all different. I take one hand away and stroke the red marks under his jaw bone from where the paramedics obviously had trouble tilting his head to secure an airway. I glance behind me at the nurse writing a chart and move my chair in until I'm as close as I can get. I need to tell him, I can't leave this room tonight until I've told him. I put my lips to his ear and say his name. It doesn't smell like him and I think that upsets me more than anything.

"_I'm here, Sherlock. You need to sort yourself out do you hear?" _I try to sound cross, but fail miserably. I hear an emergency alarm go off and some of the staff disappear to the end of the room, pulling the curtains around some poor soul. I try again.

"_Sherlock. I hope to God you can hear me."_ There's more bustling behind the curtain at the end and I suddenly feel like time is running out. This couldn't be any harder, even if he was awake. The nurse crosses the room and busies herself with something else, but I know it is for my sake and she won't go far. It all comes out disjointedly.

"_Harry says, if you love someone you tell them every day__.__ Sherlock I wasn't running I need you to know that, okay. I need you to be here. I want you to be here, with me where you should be and I don't care if you don't feel the same, that's just tough. I need you to wake up and tell me, well tell me anything really. Tell me that you need the same as I do, or that I'm being dull. Most of all I need you tell me that you forgive me and that you don't regret it, regret me. I'm sorry. I love you and I'm sorry."_

I sit back in the chair, a weight half removed from my chest and for the next 10 minutes just watch him breath in and out with his hand warming in my own. The kind-faced nurse returns and tells me she's awfully sorry but I'm going to have to go for a while. I'm welcome to stay in the waiting area and she'll call me in a bit. I stand and kiss his forehead before I leave and some of my tears are left on his cheek.

It's a weird to feel relief in this kind of circumstance and I settle back to the familiar chair. I think about calling Mycroft, but its late now and I don't want him to worry. The continuous hum of the coffee machine is soothing and I feel the need to close my eyes, it won't hurt. I just need to rest my head and I lie across the remaining chairs. I'll just rest my eyes, just for a minute. I have no idea how long has passed. I feel light and more comfortable than I have any right to be. I hear nothing of the background noises from the unit or the low radio that has been playing on the side table. I feel a hand brush my cheek and it's hard to open my eyes.

"_John"_ he whispers in my ear.

"_John."_

I fight whatever is keeping my brain shut down, blink my eyes open a little and just make out his face. His eyes are bright and he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It occurs to me that something about this is odd, but I'm just so glad to see his face.

"_Sherlock?_"

"_John, I never regret. There's nothing to forgive."_

I wake suddenly and he's gone from in front of my eyes. A horrid feeling sweeps over me.


	6. Chapter 6

**Wow, seems like the angst is really getting to everyone :) Thanks for the comments; they brighten up my night shifts. 'Read and Review' as always. Thanks again. Jess X**

**Chapter 6**

His heart goes into a dangerous arrhythmia twice more after that with one leading to another arrest. I am numb when they tell me and I remember my life support training, knowing that we will be unlikely get him back if it happens again. I take Mrs. Hudson. She cries the whole time and is too scared to hold his hand _"in case she hurts him"_. Mycroft tries to have him moved to a private hospital, muttering something about infection rates and better food. I deter him as gently as I can as it is unnecessary and he's too sick to transfer anyway. Sometimes I think the elder Holmes must eat a Daily Mail for lunch.

It's a frosty three tea-fuelled days later when he is responsive enough for them to remove the ventilator. I allow myself a little hope and call Harry. He sleeps for what feels like years and I stay the whole time, once again living on hospital sandwiches and soup that Mrs. Hudson has made. When Mycroft comes for his daily visit, I persuade myself to pop out and buy a newspaper. I'm ambitiously hoping that when he wakes he'll be anxious to see what he has missed in the world, but I suppress a niggling feeling of doubt I in my stomach.

I doze off in the chair next to him and when I next look up, he's awake with heavy lidded eyes and looking out of the small window to his left. I take a minute to watch him, not sure if he knows I'm here and I'm almost frightened that I maybe imagining it.

_"Sherlock?"_

He slowly glances in my direction for a second and then continues to stare out of the window as if he's trying to process everything from the last few days. I want to tell him that he won't be able to, not for a while. How can he? But he's asleep again within a minute and I stem my urge to disturb him. They tell me that they've called for a Psych Consult; they obviously think that the overdose was on purpose and I can't tell them whether they're right or not. They don't allow me to stay that night and I shout and make a scene. I'm a Doctor, I should know better but I only do it from my need for him to hopefully hear my voice from the corridor and know that I am here.

The next morning I run into the psychiatrist on her way out of his room. He's awake and she has everything she needs apparently in order to 'sign him off'. I'm a little alarmed at the speed, but this isn't a surprise to me. I have always had little doubt that Sherlock is too much of a good actor to be succinctly 'profiled' or 'counseled' and I also have no doubt that he has just successfully told her exactly what she needed to see and hear. I berate myself for not being here earlier and tipping her off.

Oh God, this is it. He's awake and I've been shelving the dread of the conversation to come since Lestrade had called me all those wasted days ago. The repercussions of that night upon our 'friendship' had taken a back seat with me just wanting him to live and now it was banging on the door right in front of me. I hesitate for a second before I knock and enter. He watches me take a seat and his eyes are completely unreadable. I have no doubt though that he remembers the night leading up to this mess, I can see that. Whatever will happen now, whatever he decides, I will always see that in his eyes. He goes back to staring out of the window but I know that he mustn't be able see anything out of it. We are silent for a few minutes and I can almost hear him thinking. I stare at my hands, unable to stop wringing my fingers.

_"You told my brother that you were my boyfriend."_

This was a statement rather than a question and the surprise from hearing his thick, sleepy voice cuts through my consciousness and I whip my head up and meet his eyes straight on. A smile breaks his lips and it leads me to follow and before I know it we're giggling like that night in the hallway. The tension in my heart is broken momentarily as he watches me intensely and then his smile suddenly drops.

_"I know what you're thinking John that this was on purpose. I can't recall much about 'it', but I do remember being at the Diogenes Club. This leads me to deduce that I was looking for the means to a hit. You mustn't blame yourself; I can see that you do. This is my habit John; it's never dead, merely sleeping. It's always sleeping." _

From that moment on I have no reason to doubt what he has disclosed to me. He looks sad and it wrenches at my heart. I go to take his hand and he moves it out of reach and I swallow hard.

_"Don't pity me John, I don't ask for your pity." _

I see a flash of tired anger in his eyes, but I know better from whence it came now and don't take it as any means of which to judge the decision that I imagine I am awaiting.

_"What DO you ask of me?" _I say softly.

I grab the hand that he had removed from my reach and it startles him. He stares for a long time trying to glean what from my face, I don't know.

_"John, I don't know how to do THIS." _He gestures between the two of us. _"I have no passed experience in a 'relationship', I certainly can't research it and therefore it's not productive. For you, or for me."_

I inwardly panic as he turns towards the window and I feel like I'm losing him all over again. I move closer and take his other hand from across his hips and hold them both tight in my own. I want to shake him but I resist the urge.

_"Sherlock, this is as strange for me as it is for you and the most important thing is what you WANT to do. These things are barely ever logical." _

We both stare at our hands entwined and I watch his breath quicken a little and hope that I read him correctly. I lean in until I am so close I can hear his breaths and I thank God for them. We both sit like that, for how long I have no idea. I feel him move upon the bed and I daren't look up. Then I feel him lean into my ear, his warm breath tickling me. I feel like I may pass out or move in a way that would scare him away. He nuzzles into me and rests his forehead against the side of my face.

_"What do you want?"_

I repeat this at a whisper, completely under this spell. He releases a hand and has to unwrap my grip with the other and places it gruffly around my neck pulling me in closer. It feels like he's out of control.

_"I don't want you to leave."_ He says in to my hair.

_"Tell me what you need." _I say as he kisses my cheek. I need him there and then and he's telling me with his hands to get closer, to get on the bed. Before I know it one hand is under the sheets and the other in his hair and he's encouraging me with kisses around my neck. He wants to repeat the gesture, but suddenly my hand is forced to recoil in a flash and I slide back into the chair. Sherlock just stares ambiguously at the individual who has just entered without knocking.

_"Well, I see you're getting some of your strength back little brother. I'll be outside talking to your nurse. Dr. Watson__,__ if you'd allow me some time to discuss some issues with my brother it would be much appreciated."_

Mycroft stands in the doorway with no embarrassment in his voice whatsoever, then turns and walks out of sight and leaves the door open as my cue. I've never giggled so much as I did then and Sherlock watches me in fascination as if he's never heard it before. He still looks pale and tired and I momentarily remember my worry.

_"I had better go __.__You need some uninterrupted rest."_

I say this with playful remorse in my voice and stand up. I wait for a second but he doesn't respond and this confuses me. I swallow my anticipation and lean in to kiss his forehead but he turns as if I'm no longer there and goes back to staring out of the window. On the journey back to Baker Street I re-analyze the past 24 hours try not to let it dampen my relief. This must be so much to take in all at once. He truly is unchartered territory and I am torn between fighting and threatening the fragility of the whole thing, or taking it slowly for his sake.

The next day I decide to enter the hospital with a light heart. I take in the dark blue silk robe he's so fond of and I berate myself for not being a better 'visitor' and brining some of his things in earlier. He looks drained today and I suddenly worry that maybe he's had second thoughts. His Doctors say that his blood tests are slowly returning to normal, but mention phrases such as 'slow going' and 'not out of the woods yet' and the one that sends a shiver down my spine; 'possible long term effects'. All these things I know, but didn't think they applied to him. I always think the normal rules don't apply to Sherlock.

I sit in the chair next to his bed again; my new home since he's been away from Baker Street. It appears I haven't woken him as I enter and so I sit and try to read the paper but fail miserably.

"_Stop watching me sleep, it's not a productive use of time."_ He says slowly without opening his eyes.

"_It is to me."_ I say and my boldness pays off as his cheeks colour a little. I bite my lip and smile to myself. I read him the paper and I watch his interest immerge as I choose an article related to a case we had been looking into. I sense the over familiar stir of frustration in him and I am indebted to him for showing it to me. Its midday and a nurse comes in and asks me to leave for some 'therapy' or other. The look of distain on his face is priceless.

"_You'll wait though?"_

This is said with the most vulnerability I have ever heard in his voice and I now feel as though I can add 'this' Sherlock to the one I know from before. He holds on to my hand for as long as he can until it doesn't reach anymore and it pains me to leave. However, it is necessary, he needs to get better. I take a seat in the waiting lounge for what seems like the millionth time this week and as I sit, I feel I can truly relax a little. Maybe this is going to be okay; maybe this really is going to work out. I bring my legs up placing them on the chair in front and fold the paper putting it on my lap. I close my eyes and feel like I may sleep instead of just treading water in my head as I have done for the last few days. I am vaguely aware that someone has sat down next to me and I don't want to open my eyes. They remove the paper from my lap and I stir properly, not believing the sight in front of me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hi. Once again for the record; I don't own and don't make a profit from.. etc., etc. Please PLEASE read and review, I'm needy and found this chapter really hard to write. Also, this story hasn't been Beta'd so apologies for any anoying mystakes ****J**

**Jess X**

**Chapter 7**

_"Come on with you, let us leave now before my brother hears of this and has security pick me up at the door."_

Sherlock is sat next to me with his coat and scarf hastily donned; skimming the front of the paper he has just taken from my lap. He's not reading it properly; I can tell it's just for effect. He looks at me with what I call his 'hurry up and get your brain in gear' expression, but his eyes aren't as sharp as I am used to.

_"They can't be letting you go already? That's ridiculous. There must be a mix up, let me go and talk to your Doctor."_

I hurry to my feet, but without rising from his chair he grabs my arm to stop me. He looks guilty.

_"Don't bother. I self-discharged__.__" _

He carefully reads the look on my face.

_"Oh John, stop being a Doctor for once will you"_ -he says in that overly familiar flippant tone of his. He then struggles to his feet and I have to steady him as he stands.

"_On second thoughts don't, I need you to remove this."_

He lifts his sleeve, unperturbed by his weakness and shows me a large intravenous line in the crook of his elbow.

_"For Christ's sake Sherlock, do they even know you've gone? I'm not being party to you absconding; your brother will have me up on kidnapping charges."_

"_Relax Doctor, I left them a note. Now__,__ are you coming or are you making your own way home?"_

_"Is there anything I can say that will change your mind?" __-_I utter, not bothering to hide the worry in my voice.

He doesn't answer and I have the moment to take in his face and remember that I have to be thankful we can even be here debating this at all. He looks at me expectantly and I sigh; half in frustration and half with relief. Giving in, I pull his coat properly around his shoulders. As I turn, he slows me and takes my arm out of necessity. He's still quite uncertain on his feet. We walk in silence and by the time we reach a taxi out front, he's visibly drained by the short walk. As we sit in the black cab, I think of the task ahead of me and make a mental list of all the tactics I have used in the past to make him, eat, sleep and generally take care of the things he classes as 'dull'. I know I'm going to need to use them all and probably find some new ones. His head lolls on my shoulder and I suddenly can't remember my own name, let alone give the cabby our address.

When we've completed our journey, I have to wake and guide him up the steps. Mrs. Hudson is in shock and looks at me questioningly over his shoulder as she gives him a huge hug, almost knocking him off of his feet. She's been shopping and has tidied the flat. I could kiss her. As I go into the kitchen to start unpacking, Sherlock heads slowly into the living room and when I turn next he is stretched out on the sofa pulling his coat up over him as a makeshift blanket. I abandon the unpacking and take over a glass of water, setting it on the coffee table next to him.

"_Sherlock, why don't you go to bed? I'll bring you in some tea."_

"_No, I've just spent 5 days in bed John; I just need to get warm._ _ Why aren't you at work?" _

His eyes are already closing and he fidgets, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable. I ignore the last statement as I know he means to say I'm fussing and I've already told him that Sarah gave me some holiday. His memory isn't quite back to normal yet but I refuse to dwell on it too much. I make my way up to my room; the only one with a proper duvet on the bed and when I return he's shivering a little. He watches me with heavy lidded eyes as I remove his shoes and take his coat, throwing the duvet over his form. He seems to thank me with his eyes and I chance my arm by handing him the glass of water. There aren't the protests I expect and he watches me with intrigue as he drinks. As he hands back the glass I feel his icy skin like a stab in my heart and I get the need to touch him.

"_Okay, budge up."_

"_Why__,__ what are you doing?" _

The annoyance in his voice is that which I have heard many times before, born usually of his frustration or lack of understanding of the situation in front of him. I get to hear it when I tell him I'm going out after he's had a meltdown about something ridiculous like me 'caring'. It always awakens the authoritative side of me that I reserve for him when he's in this mood.

"_Calm down, I'm warming you up. This is more effective."_

Knowing that the logic would lullaby him, I place my hand behind his neck and down between his shoulder blades; guiding him to sit up. I remove the sofa cushion he was leaning on and slide in behind him, pulling him back on to my chest. I hear him exhale and I pull the duvet up and easily wrap my arms across his chest. He relaxes readily with his head resting back, finding the crook between my neck and right shoulder. I notice how much weight this situation has cost him already and the old familiar guilt stirs in my stomach. To see him pliable in this way feels somewhat against nature, but beautiful none the less. He suddenly stirs as if he's forgotten something.

"_Wake me if you get uncomfortable."_

I take a second to register what he has just said and can't help laughing quietly to myself that it takes a near exhausted Sherlock to voice a concern such as this. If it weren't for the situation I would remind him that that is indeed 'caring'.

"_I won't get uncomfortable."_

I whisper this with resignation into his ear and he leans into my words, although I am sure he hasn't stayed to hear them. My lips brush his hairline and I tighten my arms around him. This is my new strange home and I never want to leave.

To say the following week is a difficult one would be an understatement and I dread that our previous sentiments are somehow lost to him. He refuses to go to his bed, leaving me to sleep in the chair to keep an eye on him. Mrs. Hudson scolds me, for my shoulder is evidently complaining about it.

One thing I had been afraid of when he had left the hospital had been 'ITU syndrome' and it became apparent very quickly that he had not escaped it. I'd seen it before, mainly in patients who'd had a stay in Intensive care and were unknowingly affected by their experiences. It results from the fact that they can often be subconsciously aware of the things going on around them whilst in the' coma'; the noise of the monitors, the breathing tube, the perpetual lights. Even being touched and prodded. Despite having no recollection of this 'trauma', the anxiety of this will then manifest itself in the form of nightmares and agitation once recovered. It was an odd reversal of roles, but luckily I felt better equipped than Sherlock had obviously felt with me.

"_It's your brain just trying to make sense of what you've been through." _I say softly to him one night as we're sat on the floor with my arms clamped round him holding him tight. His breathing is erratic and he's wet through with sweat, his eyes not focusing properly.

"_I have to get you out John, he's here. He has a bomb."_

"_We're home Sherlock, it's just us. This will pass, I promise you."_

To see him like this is fire to my soul and not long after, the caged animal comes to stay. His strength is returning, but he's fighting something and seeing as he won't disclose it to me, it becomes me. His mood is thunder and rain and I am once again glad I've hidden the gun. The words that he does offer me are bitter and spat and the lack of 'him' is stifling. He won't eat, won't sleep and won't leave the sofa and when I feel like I may lose control I call Mycroft in desperation. He arrives in half an hour with a car to take him to 'a facility' and I immediately panic and change my mind. It doesn't matter anyway; he of course refuses to go. When he sees my face once I've sent Mycroft away, a strange calm descends upon him and he sits on the sofa with his hands peaked under his chin studying me intensely. He's processing something and then seemingly makes a decision.

"_May we take a walk around Regent's park?"_

It's cold, but he doesn't appear to feel it which pleases me and I try hard to ignore the part of my brain that's warning me not to let him abscond and end up back 'there'. However, I am glad that the inertia has dissipated and that the contemplative Sherlock is back. The ambition in his walk suddenly turns to desperation and he pulls me from the swarming path and into the small gathering of trees. He looks at the floor, his hands back in the pockets of his coat.

"_I told you that night John. You should get as far away from me as you can. I don't want you to feel like you should stay out of some misguided sense of guilt or pity." _

The anger that has been building up in me for the past few days suddenly needs an outlet.

"_You Bastard."_

A woman pulls her little boy by the hand, glaring at my outburst. He's visibly shocked at the anger in my voice and I can't help but enjoy the confusion on his face.

"_You think I'd stick around through the crap you've just put me through just to bolt now? I mean, do you even know me at all Sherlock?- and I'm not talking about deducing what I had for breakfast__,__ or whether I slept on the chair last night; which incidentally I have done since you got home. I mean, do you know ME__.__ Talk to me. You have to talk to me Sherlock."_

He looks as if he is searching his own soul, then gives in to my request

"_I can't seem to predict you John, I can never tell what you're thinking. There are too many variables and I can't seem to make my brain work."_

His hands grip his skull as if this will help him in some way and then goes to turn away from me. I remove his hands from his head, remembering the same gesture I made that first night. I move ever closer and I am glad that he puts no effort into ignoring my advances as he has done lately.

"_Have you any idea what you've been through?"_ I say to him, the anger gone from my voice. There's a long pause.

"_Only what I see in your eyes."_

He takes a hand up to my face and I lean into his touch, feeling all the curves of his palm.

"_I am sorry"_ he says eager to let me know.

"_For which part exactly?"_ I say. He thinks a long while about what he wants to say next.

"_For whom I am and for whom I am not. This isn't going to be easy John."_

"_One thing I never expect from you is 'easy' Sherlock and for the record- it's all of you I take. Okay?"_

He studies me and then looks past my shoulder, suddenly aware of our open surroundings and so I guide him round to the other side of the large tree behind us, obscuring our view to the London crowd. He is eager to have me close and I feel the weight of his hands on my waste and round my shoulders and pulling at my neck, the rest of his body pressing me against the tree. I feel I may disappear into him.

"_I listened to the message you left on my phone"_ he whispered into my ear. His breath makes me shiver and I have to grip on to him to steady myself. He laughs a little at my response and it tickles my neck. All I can say is a slight _"Hmmm?"_ in response.

"_It was a very…good …message …..John" __-_He says, kissing me between each word.

I take his face in my hands as he kisses my neck and I am so close to pushing him through the bushes to the left of us and being done with it there and then. I draw his face to me and kiss him slowly. He returns it with more strength than I have felt from him in a week and I want to bask in it.

"_Back to the flat?" _ He says with his voice that suggests he's not sure whether he's said the correct thing.

**Okay, who wants one last chapter of complete fluff? I promise…no angst , Please R and R****.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Okay, here it is (big sigh) the final chapter. I have really enjoyed writing my first chaptered fic and loved the comments, so thank you. I may possibly be tempted to continue this stance in the future if wanted (see ending). I really poured over this chapter so please let me know what you all think. Thanks again, it was a pleasure. **

**Jess x**

**Chapter 8**

Our walk home is a hurried one and eager glances hit me every few steps as if he's checking I'm still there. It seems we are unable to exist at present without touching the other and more than once he steals a breathless kiss whilst our journey is halted by traffic. As we turn the corner into Baker Street he hauls me back swiftly.

_"Lestrade"-_ He says in frustration.

I stare at him in amusement, hanging a hand on the lapel of his coat.

_"To be honest Sherlock__,__ I don't think he's going to want to be part of this"-_ I say with a blissful smile.

_"What? Shut up. No he's here, at the door"__._

I go to peer around the corner but he stops me; pining me up against the wall with gentle ease and I know now that there is no place I wouldn't go if it were him pushing me there.

"_Don't__,__ he'll see us."_

We wait for a few minutes, close together out of sight and we have to admire Lestrade's persistency as he tries each of our phones in turn. To the horror on both our faces Mrs. Hudson then opens the door and invites him in. Sherlock lets out a groan as he leans back against the wall next to me, his head falling to my shoulder in frustration and I turn to inhale him. It pleases to me to see so obviously that the delay is killing us both.

"_Come on, the sooner we get in there the sooner we can get him to go"_-I say.

I leave the wall but before I know it, he has grabbed my wrists pulling me back into the shadows and kisses me as if it were possibly the last we'd ever share. I come to my senses in time to force my tongue into his mouth in reply and I he melts into me so that we are as close as we feel able on the street in which we live. It's quick, but no less intense and his hands then reach out past my shoulders, flat against the wall behind and I find my own under his coat and up his back. Just when I feel him press fully against my body; intent and all, he is off across the road with his coat and scarf billowing out behind him.

"_Just in case"_- he shouts back without turning and I am left to recover and follow in my own time.

We sit in an uncomfortable silence with Mrs. Hudson serving tea and I have to try exceedingly hard not to laugh at the look of thunder that has taken up residence on Sherlock's face. Lestrade is seemingly responding to a desperate text message I had forgotten I'd sent yesterday and has come to ask Sherlock to accompany him alone to a crime scene. The irony stings, but I don't forget our moment at the back of that club and I am thankful that he wants to entice Sherlock back to the land of the un-living.

"_So what do you think, feel up to it?" _

He looks pleased with himself and I force a smile. Bless him, he thinks he's helping and in all intense and purposes he is. There is a brief silence and I stare at Sherlock, with Lestrade glancing between us in confusion expecting the usual flurry of activity to find coats and summon Taxi's. I fidget in my chair.

"_What else are you going to do, sit here and mope?"_

The tension in the room peeks and we choose that moment to stand in unison and hurriedly offer alternatives; he says we're on our way out, I say we have things to do here. Then, as if watching all that crap TV has taught us nothing of cliché, we repeat the other's statement. Sherlock glares at me accusingly and I at him with helplessness and we both fall back into our chairs, defeated. For an apparently intelligent man Lestrade doesn't catch on quickly.

"_Sherlock, get your coat_"- I say when it becomes clear that Lestrade isn't going anywhere.

"_I will not__.__"_

"_Sherlock, please we need some form of normality here, get your coat. For me."_- I add this last bit quietly and the sentiment isn't lost on him. He looks at Lestrade with furry and gets up grabbing his coat from next to me.

"_An hour, no more."_

He leans in a little too close, for a little too long and I have to hold my breath to stop me from doing what would undoubtedly give us away. Then they are gone and I'm left with only his scarf on my lap, tapping fingers on the arm of the chair already feeling impatient at the loss. There are hurried steps on the stairs and he leans over the back of my chair placing a hand down my shirt and kissing the side of my neck.

"_Don't go anywhere"__-_ he says, grabbing his scarf.

The next few hours are the longest of my life and although it's not the end of our world, I berate myself for not being selfish enough to throw our visitors out when we had the chance. I keep busy but it seems that all I am capable of is pacing and keeping look out over the street below, mindful that soon we can lock the door and the world can go ahead and end if it so wishes.

_1 new message_

-You have no idea what I am imagining doing to you right now. SH-

_Reply to message_

-I'm sorry; I have no idea to what you are referring, I have a date tonight. JW-

_1 new message_

-Very amusing. Hailing a cab in a bit. SH-

By the time he does get in its late and I've dozed off in the chair. He's left me to sleep. It must be love.

"Stop watching me sleep, it's not a productive use of time"- I say with a smug voice, slowly coming to.

He doesn't reply but I can feel his thin smile at the recollection of our conversation at the hospital. He's contemplating his next move and I let him have the moment. The squeak of leather indicates that he's left the sofa and I keep my eyes shut as if it's a gesture I should concentrate on. He slowly makes his way across the floor and a second later has knelt and picked up my hand from the arm of the chair. He runs his fingers over my palm and holds the weight of it in his. It's like he's examining it for the first time and I have to shift the image of him doing the same to a cold body on the slab. I hear his breathing speed up and he places a kiss on my wrist where my pulse should be, shattering all thoughts of the previous.

I feel his body weight shift and he's standing, silently inviting me to do the same. I let him pull me up and start guiding me to his room. I'm almost undone as he slips in behind me, leaning into my neck as he passes a hand round my waist to open the door. Once inside, there is a flurry of hands and material and our kisses are that of a violent urgency. He has his hands down my back and into the band of my jeans and as I finish hastily unbuttoning his shirt, I see the large round bruises around his porcelain chest. I pause with concern, remembering the broken ribs from the CPR, surely he's in pain.

"_This makes it worth the wounds"_- he whispers reading my mind.

I pull him down onto the bed, flushed and breathless and he feels like no weight at all. We pause to rid ourselves of the final constraints of our clothes and I am suddenly able to remember parts of our first encounter that had deserted me in the trauma of the last few weeks. Enlightened senses and eager hands busy themselves as I pull him up over me and I manage to hesitate for a brief moment, mindful not to hurt those purple bruises. He growls with impatience and pulls my legs around his hips, gathering purchase on the headboard above me. He knows he doesn't need to ask permission, but he does anyway and as his rhythm stabilizes and my grip upon him intensifies, he watches my eyes in fascination. It's over for him quickly and he kisses me throughout, his hot breath like white stars against me. His pace slows in control and I encourage him until my world ends momentarily.

"_Do you remember any of it?"- _I say to him referring to his hospital stay, as we settle against each other on the pillows as if sharing a quiet secret, legs entwined.

"_Only your voice_"- he says curiously. _"Interesting."_

Four glorious months go by and lying in the dark one night high on the finality of a case; when it's been all I can do to steer him out of the hallway and into a proper bed, he says it.

"_Isn't it strange that the human condition yearns for__,__ with all it's being, that which makes it most vulnerable."_

I know exactly of which he speaks, but he mistakes my expression for that of confusion.

"_Love, John. Love_"- He says casually, as if it is one of his 'isn't it obvious' scientific dialogues I'm always privy to. It isn't the declaration one would dream of hearing, but to me it is the last of Sherlock's walls crashing down silently around us. When he is the furious hurricane of Vivaldi's L'Estate Presto and his demons are in full force, I can imagine that I misinterpreted this statement entirely. But then he will always entice me round with promises of brakes between cases and turning off phones.

I have absolutely no idea how I got here; this place, this delicious place with him. No day goes by that he fails to surprise me and I believe he would say the same of me. The most amazing thing is that it doesn't seem to be leaving either of us any time soon. Not like my other encounters, because in comparison that's all they can be classed as now; mere encounters. It seems I was a done deal long ago and he tells me that I make him human. I in turn berate him for imagining that his character was in some way lacking. I don't think anyone would believe me if I chose to disclose his vulnerabilities or lack of self-esteem. I always said he was a good actor. Gone are the hidden photos from his only other friend the skull, now replaced by one in his wallet that I know he asked Harry for. They seem to share an understanding.

Sherlock as a lover is everything and nothing I could have imagined all at once. His approach taken to me is of course the same as that taken with his work; intense, frenzied, unpredictable and sporadic, on one occasion even landing us an ASBO for 'public indecency' from Lestrade. But that of course is another story.

The End


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